Shipwrecked
by Haladflire65
Summary: Alfred sees that Bruce needs a break from being endlessly hunted every night. A short vacation is planned for Master Wayne, but things don't go as planned... Post-TDK, spoilers naturally. Rated T for violence, language and intensity.
1. Chapter One

Summary:

After a particularly bad night for Bruce Wayne, Alfred knows that his master wouldn't last much longer, both physically and mentally. When a short vacation aboard a ship is suggested by Alfred, Bruce readily agrees and takes the oppertunity to have a good break from his living nightmare. But when things don't go as planned, Bruce finds himself alone, stranded on an obscure deserted island, with no food, water, supplies, nothing. While a desperate search for him ensues, Bruce struggles to survive, fighting the elements, wild animals, starvation, and his own inner demons... Bruce discovers things he never knew about himself during his unpleasant stay on the island - who know that the Batman would be so vital for staying alive? Post-TDK, spoilers naturally.

Rating: T for violence, language, and general maturity.

Notes: This is more of an experimental fanfic. Bruce Wayne, shipwrecked - it's just too fun of an idea to resist. Also it's going to be a great oppertunity for an in-depth exploration of the character of Wayne - a very interesting character, indeed. This is going to be _a lot_ of fun. Try reading on, review, and enjoy.

Shipwrecked

**Chapter One**

"There! There he is! Move! Move!"

"Open fire!"

"Bring him down!"

The bullets came flying - a few finding their mark, smashing through Kevlar, flesh, and bone. Batman screamed, more in frustration then in pain, and simply let go of the wall he had been scaling. He fell, and fell and fell - the cape didn't open in time - he landed hard on a fire escape. He thought he felt something break, but there was no way of telling - there was just too much pain. More bullets, whistling past him - one grazed his exposed jaw, leaving behind a burning, searing line in its wake.

"Bring him down! Bring him down!" Batman staggered up to his feet as the cops came running at him with their clubs and dogs. He took a few punishing blows before he was able to yank out his grappling gun, aim and shoot. He was hauled up onto a nearby rooftop - saved for now. Knowing that he didn't have much time before he would give in to blood loss and exhaustion, Batman spoke into his radio, breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Alfred... I'm in trouble. Meet me by the alley behind Gotham Bank."

"I shall be there right away, sir."

"I've lost a lot of blood."

"We've prepared for the worst of things, Master Wayne, don't you worry." Alfred's voice betrayed no concern, like always.

"Thanks. And hurry... please."

"I will, sir."

Clicking off the radio, Batman closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing labored and painful. The blood, the blood, there was too much blood... Then he remembered the policemen were still after him, probably searching the buildings. With a grunt he levered himself to a standing position, and somehow made it to the edge of the roof, the one facing Gotham Bank. The cops were on the other side, he could hear them, and the dogs - he silently begged Alfred to ignore the speed limits on the road. It wouldn't be long before they found him. If they did, it would be all over, everything.

It seemed like an agonizingly long time before there was the low rumble of engines from the ground below. Through the black blotches that were obscuring his vision, Batman recognized Alfred's Rolls-Royce.

With a final, desperate effort, Batman lurched over the edge of the building, closed his eyes, and let the darkness overtake him as he fell.

* * *

Alfred knew that Bruce's life may be in danger. He knew that half the cops of the Gotham PD were after him. He knew that if they caught Bruce they would arrest him, probably keep him in prison for the rest of his life.

Ignoring the blood soaking into the expensive leather seats of his Rolls, Alfred sped out of the alley, swerving around the few cars that were on the road at this time of the night. He glanced at the rearview mirror; no police cars, no wailing sirens. Good. So they weren't chasing the car. After all, who would ever suspect that the Batman would be carried away by an old gentleman in a Rolls-Royce?

They arrived at the Bat-Hanger. With a strength he never knew he had Alfred carried Bruce out of the car and to a slab he had prepared before leaving. Wrenching off the cowl and armor, Alfred calmly and efficiently began to treat the numerous injuries that his master had sustained - mostly bullet wounds, some bad bruising, and what seemed to be a broken rib. Yes, it was bad. But none of the wounds were fatal, to Alfred's great relief.

"Live to fight another day, Master Wayne," murmured Alfred as he wiped away the last of the blood from Bruce's skin. He pulled out a chair, and sat, hands clapsed together.

Waiting, waiting. Waiting for Bruce to wake up, waiting for the dawn of his life, waiting for Gotham's recovery - waiting. It seemed to Alfred that he never did anything else.

* * *

Why did the meeting seem so _long_? Bruce struggled not to squirm with discomfort in his chair - all his wounds hurt like the devil. He knew that he should have listened to Alfred this morning. _"You're going to damage yourself further - allow yourself a day off, for God's sake, Master Wayne!" _But Bruce had grown up with this stubborness. He went off to work, even though it still hurt to breathe. The injurires he sustained two days ago were bad; Bruce couldn't deny it. Four bullet wounds, a gash on his face, a snapped rib and a mild concussion. Batman had rested, even if it was what he hated most - being left in the dark like that. Batman was supposed to be all-knowing, impossible to surprise or ambush. _Not any more..._

"Mr. Wayne?" Someone tapped his shoulder, where, previously, a bullet had been lodged. He couldn't help but flinch with pain as he answered, rather faintly -

"Yes?"

"We were asking you about the deal..." Miraculously, Bruce could think of something to say.

"Put it on hold. We can't afford to take the risk."

A man raised his hand. "But..."

Lucius Fox to the rescue. "You heard him. The meeting's over." Bruce almost groaned with relief as the men stood and left. Fox came to him, and said in an undertone,

"Mr. Wayne. You _must_ do something. You look like you've been through hell - "

"Lucius. I said I'm fine."

"Then some enthusiastic young employee will come and shake your hand, make you faint or something." Fox shook his head. "You're going to blow your cover, Bruce, and things will turn very ugly. Please."

"Lucius - "

Fox looked at him. "You're bleeding through that suit, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looked down at himself. "Dammit." He muttered, hurriedly buttoning up his jacket all the way. "You have any spare bandages, gauze, anything of the sort?"

"Only if you promise me to stay in your office for the rest of the day."

Bruce clenched his teeth. "Fine."

Fox suddenly smiled. "Just like your father, aren't you? Both stubborn as donkeys."

"You're not the only person to tell me that, Lucius." Bruce muttered. "You're not the only one."

* * *

Bruce was planning to get home as soon as possible, but again things didn't work out according to plan.

He was heading home in his new Lamborghini when he encountered some bad traffic. The cars were all parked on the road, their drivers nowhere to be seen. Cursing, Bruce honked the horn - no response from any of the vehicles. With no other choice, he got out of the car, spotted a crowd not so far away, and walked towards the source of the commotion.

It was a press conference, something of the sort, being held in a square on the side of the road. Bruce instantly recognized the man at the podium. He should. It was the man who was leading the manhunt for Batman - Commissioner James Gordon.

The speech was just beginning. "I am holding this press conference in answer to the reports of Batman murders and robberies the Gotham Police Department have been receiving in the past few months - "

"Yeah, but no cop seems to be giving a damn!" Someone from the crowd shouted. There were roars of agreement, making Bruce clench his fists in anger, frustration and helplessness. Gordon raised his hand for quiet, and began to speak again.

"We will now be doubling the number of policemen dispatched to locate and capture the Batman. We have already allowed the use of gunfire on him." Bruce felt his wounds tingle when Gordon said that. _Hell, yeah, you have_... "And I have created a Batman report hotline for quick pinpointing of his location."

_'Damn, no... Gordon! Why? Why?_'

"Commissioner!" A reporter called out. "What do you plan to do first if you catch him?"

Bruce saw Gordon hesitate. "Interrogate him first - "

"That _monster_?" Hot anger flared up within Bruce, but he managed not to show any reaction. "He deserves nothing but a slow, painful death!" Murmurs of agreement. More anger.

"We'll see about that," Gordon looked down at his hands, "when we find out whose face is under that mask." A cold chill ran down Bruce's spine.

"But he's killing cops! Citizens! He's a _murderer_!"

_'I'm not a goddammed murderer... I never killed anyone... I never commited robberies... I never...'_ Bruce desperately wanted to tell the entire world the truth, the whole truth - but he knew, it was he who chose to do what he did - it was a sacrifice he had chosen to make. No one had forced him to do it, no one at all.

Yet he was now shaking with rage. The pain didn't help either. The rib he had broken in his fall gave an unpleasant grinding sensation; the bullet wounds throbbed, the cut on his face stung painfully.

"Mr. Wayne? You all right?" A man asked from beside him. "Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce was wise enough to know that he wouldn't be able to hold in his emotions for much longer. He was in danger of arousing suspicion. Without answering the man, he abruptly turned, and left, trying to keep his expression from twisting into a snarl of rage.

Ah, the unfairness of this whole situation, the unfairness of his _life_. He could hear Harvey Dent's voice inside his head - "_The only morality in a cruel world is chance. Unprejudiced, unbiased, fair_."

As Bruce backed his Lamborghini out of the traffic, he wondered whether Dent had been right. Chance. How... tantalizing the word suddenly sounded. Chance. If everything in the world was decided by a flip of a coin, his life might have been so different. The possibilites were mind-numbing. Maybe he wouldn't have fallen into that well, he would never have become what he was now. His parents might never have been killed - Rachel, God, Rachel, too.

But things would never be that way. It was just another dream, a stupid, pointless, dream. Bruce had a lot of these wishes, wishes that would never be fufilled.

He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white.

"I am not a murderer!" He shouted to no one, knowing that not a soul would be able to hear him from outside the car. His shoulders were shaking. "You fools think you know everything..." Tears of rage and hopelessness flowed down his face, despite his best attempts to stop them. _A nightmare... I'm living a nightmare... Then when will I wake up?_

_When?_

_Goddammit, I said, WHEN?_

_Even if it's only for a moment..._

_When..._

* * *

The pleasant Mozart sonata tinkled through the speakers of the radio. Alfred was sitting on the couch with a cup of tea in his hand, enjoying his day. Despite his worry for Bruce he was able to relax - he knew his master was a man who was able to take care of himself exceptionally well.

Bruce came home much later than he had expected. Alfred had thought he would head straight for the penthouse, with his obvious injuries and exhaustion. But today he arrived _later_ than usual.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred called out when he heard the door open.

No reply. Alfred set down his cup, stood up, and raised his eyebrows. Bruce came in at this moment, an almost frightening expression on his face. It was one of complete anger and devastation, of frustration and hopelessness. Alfred wondered what had happened to him as he came and flopped down onto the couch, a wince flashing across his features.

Alfred sat down beside him, and helped him take off his jacket. The white shirt underneath was stained with blood. Sighing, Alfred dared to ask,

"What happened, sir?"

Bruce looked down at himself as Alfred began his doctoring. "Nothing, really."

"Then... what..."

"Gordon held a press conference today."

"I know. I saw it on television. I had no idea you were there, Master Wayne." Alfred had been hoping that Bruce wouldn't hear about the conference.

"Well, I was. And I heard every word of it." Alfred could feel his master's pain as he cleaned up the bloody mess that was Bruce's torso. He knew all the things that Gordon and the other people had said about Batman; he also knew what Bruce would have thought of it.

Bruce's brow was knitted into a V-shaped crease on his forehead - obviously he was deep in thought. Alfred hesitated before asking,

"Will Batman be working tonight, sir?"

Bruce was silent for a long while. "No. No, he's not." Another pause. "The cops will be everywhere; so will be the rest of Gotham City, after the press conference. And I'm not feeling well. It's too dangerous."

It wasn't often that Bruce admitted to not feeling up to his nightly battles. He didn't like to show weakness; it was a part of his nature. Something about his attitude made Alfred sense that today, Bruce's weary mind wasn't well, either. It worried Alfred.

"Alfred." Said Bruce suddenly, a rare desperation in his eyes and voice. "Alfred."

"Yes, sir?"

Bruce was trembling all over. "I... I can't take this any more. I really can't. All this... all this _shit_... It's driving me insane. _'Batman the burgler'_. _'Batman the murderer'_. _'Kill the Batman'_. The police shooting away at me every night, Bruce Wayne the idiot... I just can't do this, Alfred! How can anyone endure _this_?" Bruce looked up at Alfred, his eyes red. "When can I wake up from this nightmare?"

"Master Wayne..." Alfred hesitated again, pausing to dab away at a bullet wound. "How would you like a short vacation?"

Bruce looked incredulous. "A vacation?"

Alfred nodded. "Yes. To some quiet part of the sea, perhaps, on a yacht... Just you, sir, and me."

Bruce grinned weakly. "No goddammed ballerinas?"

"No bloody ballerinas." Alfred smiled.

Then Bruce was serious again. "A vacation... Very tempting, Alfred, but I don't know. For one thing, I'm not exactly in the best condition - "

"We can wait until you recover."

"Even so - someone might make a connection..."

"Last time you went to Hong Kong, sir, no one gave a damn. Although it did seem very obvious - an article in the paper, even - no one noticed."

"But Alfred..."

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"I'm not so sure about this - "

"Master Wayne." Alfred was suddenly grave. "You _need_ to have a rest. As you said so yourself, you won't last much longer under these circumstances. If you go on like this, sir, who knows what will happen? The possibilites are melancholy. To others this will be just another reason to scorn Bruce Wayne, but to you, sir, this will be a brief wake-up from your nightmare."

Bruce closed his mouth, obviously seeing the logic in Alfred's words. As Alfred bandaged up the last of his injuries, he said, "I don't like it, but I have to admit it. You're right, as always. I should have a break."

"Two weeks from now?"

"Sure." Nodded Bruce. "Pick a good spot for me, will you?"

"Of course, sir."

"Until then..." Murmured Bruce, smoothing his hair back with a sigh. "Before I leave I think I'll have to pay Commissioner Gordon a visit."

"Why, Master Wayne?"

"Oh, I just want to say hello," Bruce replied.

"Just hello?" Alfred raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"Yeah. Why, don't you believe me?"

Alfred just said, "I have a thousand bloody reasons not to, sir."

**So, how was it? A little long, I know, but the upcoming chapters will probably be shorter. Reviews will be appreciated, expect updates to be slow, but steady. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter Two

I was so surprised with the wonderful reviews I recieved in the first chapter! Plus four favourites, seven alerts... This is the best reaction to any fanfic I wrote so far - thanks so much.

A special thanks to **gaap237 **for the long and awesome review. 15 reasons! Wow! I never expected all that. And I agree with the yacht part, as you'll find out soon enough... :) To** Alice's Restaurant**: I guess it'll be sort of a character study, but I just like to think of it as a story ALL ABOUT BRUCE. I have to admit that I'm getting tired of the Post-TDK Joker/Harley and Bruce/OC fics. No offense to their authors, but really, it's getting a little old. I'm not saying that they're bad stories, in fact, some of them are quite good. But none of them are what I view as a proper sequel to _The Dark Knight_. This is a Batman trilogy, everyone, Batman! Not Joker, not Harley Quinn, not OC, for heaven's sake! Batman!

Sorry for the outburst... I tend to get a little excited when it comes to the Bale/Nolan Batman trilogy.

Enough chitchat for now, I guess. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

**Chapter Two**

Most people said that the days go by so quickly, but to Jim Gordon, time couldn't pass slower.

Every day was a challenge. His wife and daughter were still terribly shaken by Harvey Dent's kidnapping of them, while little Jimmy - God, Jimmy - seemed to be more angry than frightened. He wouldn't drop the subject of his father hunting the Batman, he started fights at school whenever someone called Batman a criminal, he sometimes cried, obviously remembering the gun that was held to his head by Dent, Batman collapsing, having taken a bullet, and Dent's body, sprawled at the bottom of the deep, dark hole. Gordon was surprised that Jimmy didn't have a mental breakdown, something of the sort - he had been put through so much. But then again, anger was powerful. And Jimmy was indeed angry. Gordon cringed at the thought of probably having to visit his son's teacher again at least one more time this week. All he could do was listen to the teacher as she told him that Jimmy seemed to be 'a rather unstable boy'.

"Perhaps the Batman hotline wasn't such a good idea, Commissioner." It was a sergeant telling him this.

"Why?" Asked Gordon.

"Well - " the man hesitated. "It's been two weeks, and we haven't made any progress... Frankly, there's just too many reports. Every single crime in the city is being blamed on the Batman. I don't know much about him, but I'm pretty sure he's human. He can't be in a hundred places at once. We just can't get his location, with all these calls pouring in. It's impossible. We haven't gotten any closer to catching him."

Gordon sighed. "Very well, then. Shut it off for tonight. I'll rethink it and give orders tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Will we be heading out?"

"Yeah. Get my team ready, dispatch the rest to their posts. I'll be out in five minutes." Gordon stood up as the cop left his office. He ran his fingers through his greying hair and rubbed his temple. The Batman search was going badly so far. It had already been three months since the death of Harvey Dent. Three months since Batman had become his enemy. Or at least, that was what Gordon was pretending to be true. It was killing him. No one else knew the truth - that Batman was the hero, Dent the villain. That Batman had been shot to save the Gordons, that Dent was the murderer. That Dent had killed four people (Gordon found out later that Anna Ramierez was still alive). He wanted to tell the everybody, anybody, that Batman was innocent - more than innocent.

But that would be the same thing as betraying the masked man. It was what he had _wanted _to happen. "_Gotham needs its true hero..._" Gordon could never forget those words, almost whispered into the dark night. This was why he respected Batman more than anyone else in the world. The sacrifices he had made for Gotham were endless. Gordon was ashamed about thinking him a nut in the beginning. He couldn't think of any man alive who would be willing to beat up, be beaten up every single night for a city like Gotham. In fact, Gordon had ceased to believe that Batman was a human being. He was a creature of the night, a symbol. Gordon just couldn't stand the thought of Batman actually being a _man_. The poor soul... The strain, both physical and mental, would be extreme. How could anyone endure it? Gordon didn't know how Batman was faring, not any more - he hadn't talked to him in weeks. The risks were just too great. He only knew that his men had become very close in catching him, more than two weeks ago. There had been an awful lot of blood on the rooftop they had investigated the following morning, which was, in Gordon's opinion, too contaminated for analysis. He sincerely hoped that Batman was alive and well.

"Commissioner?" The voice made him jump.

"I'm coming." Gordon grabbed his bulletproof vest, and after some hesitation, despite the obvious, his gun, as well. _Hopefully I won't need it_.

That night, Gordon learned an important lesson. _Expect the unexpected_.

He left his men searching the streets and went up to the roof of some abandoned apartment building. He stood, leaning on the edge, thinking, breathing in the cool evening air, when a noise behind him made him whip out his gun, and whirl around.

His heart nearly stopped in surprise and astonishment.

"_Batman?_"

"Hello, Gordon." It was really him. He was alive and in working order.

"What - what are you doing here? You know I have the entire PD looking for you - " Damn, he wanted to slap himself. Why didn't he have anything better to tell Batman?

"Goddammit, _I know_." Gordon flinched. He didn't have to think very hard about the reason of Batman's sensitivity. Being shot at every night was obviously not a pleasant experience.

After a tense silence Batman spoke again. "How's the Joker?"

"Him? He's locked up pretty tight in Arkham Asylum. Who knows, though? He might be able to find some way to escape, run wild again..."

"But for now, he's secure."

"Yes."

"Good." A pause. "Anything else I should know?"

"You have enough on your mind."

There was a steely edge to Batman's voice. "Tell me."

"Nothing of significance, I swear. Just a bunch of petty crimes, the occasional murder... But..."

"But?"

Gordon hesitated. "With you marked as a murderer, and most of our strength being spent on the hunt, other criminals - they're getting more daring. Soon it'll escalate into something bigger, badder... For now, though, there isn't much going on."

More silence. Gordon shifted uncomfortably. Then, another unexpected sentence. "Don't bother looking for me next week."

"Why not?" Gordon was baffled.

"I won't be working," Batman replied bluntly.

"You mean - "

"I'll be taking a short rest. You should, too, Gordon."

"But - what will I tell the others? They might figure out - "

"You'll be able to handle it." Gordon knew he was right. He _would_ be able to think of something.

Batman was already beginning to leave.

"Batman." Gordon said to him.

He turned back.

"You know what I have to do."

After yet another pause, Batman replied, "Yes, I do."

Gordon hated himself for doing it. He absolutely hated himself. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But his sense of duty was strong. He reached up to his lapel radio, slowly, slowly. "This Commissioner Gordon. I've spotted the Batman on the rooftop. Prepare for open fire." Out of the corner of his eye he saw the masked man leap from the rooftop, bizarrely majestic, and glide of into the night.

Shouts came from down below; then gunshots. Gordon cringed involuntarily._ Let him be all right, let him be all right_... He stood, rooted to the spot, until the gunfire died down and a lieutenant came looking for him.

"Commissioner! Are you all right? They said that the Batman appeared on this roof - "

"I'm fine." Gordon said flatly. "Did you hit him?"

The man looked down. "Unfortunately not, sir. He was too fast - "

"No need," Gordon said with an inward sigh of relief. _When will this end?_ He wondered. _When will Batman be redeemed? When will everyone find out the truth? When will Gotham recover?_

Judging by the current circumstances, Gordon had a long wait ahead of him.

* * *

"A vacation?" The surprise was evident in Lucius Fox's face, despite his apparent attempt to hide it.

Bruce nodded. "Yeah. It was Alfred's idea - "

Fox shook his head. "Mr. Wayne," he said, looking at Bruce, "I think it's a _fabulous_ idea. Frankly, you look _terrible_. I've been patching up your armor for weeks - I know the damage you've been sustaining, seeing the holes punched in the Kevlar. Clearly you need a rest. How long are you going to be gone for?"

"Just a week," Bruce replied. "We can't afford to arouse suspicion. It'll be obvious, very obvious, but I hope, not obvious enough. I assume my playboy act is good enough to fool most people like I've been doing for the last two years."

"I agree." Fox said. "No one will suspect anything - I'm sure of it."

"Well, then." Bruce glanced around. "Just one more accursed meeting, and I'm out of Gotham tomorrow. I'm going to be back next Friday."

"Good luck with 'the accursed meeting', then, Mr. Wayne. I'll see you next week."

"Yeah. Take care, Lucius."

"I'm more worried about you, Mr. Wayne," Fox joked.

Bruce grinned. "It's only a yacht. And no bikinied ballerinas this time - " A man, presumably from some other big company, interrupted their conversation.

"Mr. Wayne?" Bruce nodded and shook hands. "The meeting's about to begin."

"Goodbye, Lucius." Bruce said as he passed Fox.

"Same to you." For some ominous reason Fox felt the tiniest of fears taking root in his mind. Only a yacht. No ballerinas. Something else made Fox afraid. He just had the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

_What are you worring about, anyway? Bruce can take care of himself. Besides, Alfred's probably going with him..._

But through the rest of the day, that fear wouldn't leave his head, no matter how hard he tried to banish it. And as Fox knew - his instincts were never wrong. But what could he do? Bruce's vacation was none of his business. His job was to take care of Wayne Enterprises, just as Bruce had trusted him to do so. And that was that.

Fox sighed, smoothed down his suit, and took the elevator to his office.

* * *

Warm sunlight... The cool breeze... The gentle rocking motion of the yacht... And best of all, no one to bother him.

So perfect.

He had sunglasses on, with his shirt carelessly hanging open, for there was no reason to be cautious about his scars. Today Alfred hadn't bandaged the wounds, as he declared that they had healed enough to be left alone for a while. Bruce was glad, without the sufforcating gauze tightly wrapped around his chest. It was pleasant to have the sunlight soaking his bare skin.

Bruce had never been happier since... Since when? He couldn't remember a time when he was actually _happy_. Happiness. It was something far beyond his reach. But it was a price that had to be paid. Bruce had chosen this path, and besides, he had the feeling that his life wouldn't be a very bright one, the moment Joe Chill came at his parents with that gun.

This was good enough.

No one to worry about. No cops, no dogs. No flying bullets or press conferences. After the headache of disguising himself, his injuries, and his genuine self, this was heaven. No, _better_ than heaven. And it was also beneficial for Commissioner Jim Gordon. The thought pleased Bruce, because, strangely enough, Bruce felt incredibly sorry for Gordon - despite the fact that his men were riddling him with bullets every other week.

Alfred came to him, carrying a tray of lemonade. Bruce took a sip, closed his eyes contentedly for a moment. He opened them again, and said to Alfred,

"You should relax, too."

"I will, sir. Right after I make another serving of lemonade."

"I don't need any more - "

"For myself, Master Wayne. I _am_ a human being and I do need something to drink."

Bruce grinned. "Go ahead, then. But I want you to have a rest, too, Alfred - you look tired."

"Well, I _have_ been trying to keep up with you all this bloody time," Alfred replied wryly as he turned his back on Bruce, carrying the tray.

"Sorry." This was a genuine apology. Bruce knew how difficult it must have been for Alfred, as well has him.

"No need, sir."

Later Bruce found himself thinking about what he would do once he got back to Gotham. He knew, even with this wonderful vacation, he couldn't continue being hunted, chased, for the rest of his career. He had to do _something_. But what? His stupid brain just couldn't come up with the answer. So what if he had gotten tutored by the best teachers and went to Princeton, if he couldn't solve this? Bruce wished that his break would never end. He didn't want to evade police fire and fight criminals at the same time, he was tired of being blamed for crimes he never commited. He was simply _tired_. He wasn't sure for how much longer he could endure; he was positive that someday soon, he would snap. And that would be a true disaster.

_Let's not think about things like that. Let's enjoy this_. Bruce told himself, and that was exactly what he did. Soon he had dozed off, drowsy with comfort - completely unaware.

Unaware of what? He was about to find out.

**Thanks for reading. I had to figure out the best way to depict that yacht bit - I agree that it is an incredibly ehm, sexy image. I loved that scene in TDK, with BALE on the yacht...**

**Ah, sorry. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'll try and update ASAP (as soon as possible) and AOAP (as often as possible). Reviews are my life! XD**


	3. Chapter Three

Finally, another update. Thanks for all the reviews, favourites, alerts and patience. I never thought that this story will appeal so much to so many readers; I thought all people cared about was the Joker... Obviously not! I'm glad everyone's enjoying this fic so far, I'll try my best to make it as good as it can be! Thank you once more, and please enjoy!

Note: The flashback/dream/memory at the beginning of this chapter is just the scene from TDK where Dent has the Gordons where Rachel died. The last part of the movie, you know? From Batman's point of view, I guess. The entire thing was written from memory; forgive me if I made any mistakes.

**Chapter Three**

It was both a memory and a nightmare.

_"His boy has the same chance she had. Fifty-fifty."_

_"What happened to Rachel wasn't chance. You're the one pointing the gun, Harvey, so point it at the people responsible. We all acted as one. Me. Gordon. And you."_

_"Fair enough." A cocking of a pistol. "You first."_

_Cold fear began to close its fingers around his heart. If he was killed now, who would be there to save the Gordons? If he was killed now, who would be able to help Gotham?_

_Despite himself Batman felt himself holding his breath as the coin was flipped. There was a moment of silence as Dent checked the face of the coin; and then a shattering gunshot. Hot, searing pain burrowed into his abdomen; the force of the bullet knocked him off his feet._ It's not serious. It's not serious._ Batman could have laughed at himself at that._ Of course it's not serious... _He corrected himself._ It's not fatal. It's not fatal._ He had to do _something_. _Anything_._

_Batman heard Dent's voice, saying, "My turn." - it was alarmingly distant. He felt the blood leaking from his wounds. This was too much. The Joker's knife had gone in deep; so had the bullet. He couldn't last much longer. He needed help. Soon. The cold metal was grinding against his ribs - the pain was squashing his torso like a giant fist, obstructing his breathing as well as thinking. _What? What to do?_ Again, the flipping of a coin. No shot this time. Obviously Dent had been lucky. _

_Judging by Barbara Gordon's whimpers it was little Jimmy's turn. Batman drew in a shallow breath, a thought rapidly forming in his head. Dent had the gun held to the boy's head; he was flipping the coin one last time. Everyone's heads lifted, following its arc into the air..._

_And Batman made his decision._

_Ignoring the pain, he leapt up, grabbed Dent and the boy, and let himself fall over the edge of the jagged, gaping hole in the floor. He managed to keep ahold of Jimmy but not Dent. At the last minute his hand lashed out, grabbed a charred joist - vaugely he heard a sickening thud, far below him and the boy. Then_ _Gordon's face, fuzzy, hovering above them - mustering the last of his strength Batman lifted the boy, gave him to his father - his grip on the wood was slipping - he fell - landed hard -_

"Master Wayne!" Bruce's eyes snapped open as the voice penetrated his dream. He realized that he was lying on the floor of the yacht; he must have fallen off his chair. He was feeling queasy; the yacht was rocking, and his wounds were hurting again. Slowly he raised himself up from the floor, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked around for Alfred. There he was - struggling with some ropes and the sail - damn it, why was it so windy?

"Alfred! What's going on?" Bruce shouted, making his way to the other end of the boat.

Alfred yanked on a rope, said to Bruce, "I'm sorry, Master Wayne - it got windy - I thought I could handle it but - "

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Because I didn't bloody want to. I can't wake you up when you're on a vacation, for God's sake, sir - "

Bruce shook his head impatiently. "Never mind that, what do we have to do? Those look like storm clouds, Alfred, this isn't going to be pretty..."

"Can you see any other ships or boats, Master Wayne? Perhaps we can call for help - "

"Nothing, Alfred. No one around." Bruce began to reach for his cell phone. "Maybe we should just - " A thunderclap drowned out his words. Bruce glanced up; a raindrop fell onto his face as he did so.

In a matter of minutes, it was pouring. "What now, Alfred?" Bruce yelled over the roaring of the wind and rain.

He didn't hear what Alfred said next. A wave swept over the deck of the yacht, pushing Bruce off of his feet and making him land, painfully hard, on the floor. He tried to get back up, shaking the seawater out of his eyes, but almost immediately another wave came crashing down on him and the boat. He couldn't see in this rain - the wind howled in his ears, making it impossible to hear Alfred -

A brilliant flash of lightning briefly illuminated the darkness. Bruce glimpsed Alfred's face, impossibly far away, fear etched in his features. Damn it, damn the 90 - foot yacht! Damn it! Why so big? Why did Bruce have to purchase such a _bloody big yacht?_

"Alfred!" Bruce yelled, only succeeding in getting water in his mouth. Choking on the bitter, salty wetness, Bruce made an effort to crawl forward, towards Alfred. Distantly he heard Alfred call his name, desperation overtook him -

And then there was a terrible, wrenching crack. Bruce glanced up in time to see the mast of the yacht, broken down the middle, falling towards him, as if in slow motion. He rolled to one side, but wasn't fast enough - the metal struck him in the shoulder, _goddammit_, the bad shoulder, hard, and knocked him right off the boat.

Bruce gasped for breath as he struggled to keep his head above the water. His shoulder was on fire; he was already tired from wrestling with the wind from in the yacht. Swimming. He had practiced plenty of swimming, back when he was training in the mountains, and in pretty harsh conditions, too. In the stormy lake. In ice-cold water. In hot water. In rapids. But why, damn it, why, couldn't he get back to the yacht? Maybe it was because of his injuries, both old and new, which were beginning to twinge and throb painfully, having reopened under all this strain. Or perhaps because his will was starting to waver. He knew Alfred had not much chance of finding him again in this storm. And even if he did, fishing Bruce out of the ocean was a different matter. Alfred was not a young man. And Bruce knew that very well.

The water threw him around mercilessly. The wind battered his head down. After what seemed like eons of fighting the sea, Bruce let his consciousness slip from his reach. Blissfully, the darkness swallowed him up.

* * *

Alfred didn't realize that Master Wayne was overboard until it was too late. He was too busy clinging on for his bloody life. He had figured that Bruce would be able to hang on, at least until the wind died, but apparently this wasn't the case. A minute ago, Bruce was there. Slowly but steadily making his way forward, to where Alfred was crouching, back to the roaring wind. The old butler had swept his hand over his eyes, to get the water out of them, and Master Wayne was simply gone! He felt hot panic in his throat for the first time in a long while. Alfred shouted Bruce's name, desperately searched for his form in the black sea - all he saw was rain.

"Master Wayne!" Alfred yelled at the top of his voice. "_Bruce!_" Nothing. There was a rushing in his ears - he knew it wasn't the wind or rain. He was such a _fool! _He couldn't have lost Master Bruce, no, not now... After everything Bruce had been through... Alfred had managed to save Bruce the night he returned home, severely beaten, shot, and stabbed, the night the Joker was taken into custody, only to let him get _thrown overboard_ on a _goddamned vacation_? He would never forgive himself, never. At least, not unless he found Bruce again.

But it didn't seem possible. The sea raged; lightning flashed and thunder clapped. Alfred just hung on, unable to do anything, silently sobbing to himself. _Oh, God, what have I done? What am I going to do?_

* * *

The investigation for Batman's true identity started out as pretty much a joke. The board the late Weurtz had put up in the PD office, entitled 'Batman Suspects', was still there. No one had bothered to take it down. Gordon found himself staring at the pictures underneath the scrawled letters every time he passed them - Abraham Lincoln, Elvis Presley, Bigfoot... Back then, no one had bothered to try very hard to find out who was under the cape and cowl. It didn't matter. Batman was bringing down all the city's criminals, he was helping them out. Who needed to know who he really was? But now, things were a little different. Gordon knew that it was crucial for the cops to know the identity of the man who was dressing up like a bat every night, now evading police fire and fighting criminals at the same time... They still had no idea. The investigation wasn't getting anywhere. There was no place to start. Gordon didn't really want to know; he was content with just imagining Batman to be Bigfoot, or Lincoln. It was just so much easier.

Gordon had spent another sleepless night struggling with his own thoughts. He went to work early; there was nothing for him at home. Barbara knew that her husband was going through hard times, but Gordon didn't want her to share his pain. The same went for the kids. They deserved a good life. They didn't have to brood over Gordon's troubles together. And Gordon wanted to be left alone, alone and peaceful.

He spent half an hour absently going through some reports, mostly on the Batman, of course. Gordon chuckled to himself. Six murders, seventeen burglaries, twenty muggings, two dozen harassements. All under Batman's name. So ridiculous. Gordon took the entire stack of papers and shoved them into the garbage can just as an officer came to see him.

"Commissioner. This report was meant for the Coast Guard, but they..."

"Yes, of course. What is it?" The Coast Guard, like any other Gothamites, were cowards and fools. They didn't carry out their duties any better than the bent cops of the PD did. Gordon had decided to do most of their job, as well, no matter how demanding his schedule became.

"Yesterday - last night - a storm hit; I trust you know that, Commissioner?"

"Yes. But what - "

"A freighter ship picked up an old man on a destroyed yacht off the coast. He claims to be Bruce Wayne's butler, but we can't be sure, since he's pretty panaroid. Not a stable age, either..."

Gordon was suddenly alert, bright-eyed under his glasses. "And? What did he say?"

The cop hesitated. "He started shouting for Wayne the moment he woke up. That was early this morning. We think he might be insane; he certainly acts like it. But then again - didn't Wayne go away the day before? A vacation or something? It was a hell of a big yacht, too, I think."

"Yeah. He did." Gordon stood up abruptly. "Where's the butler right now?"

"We've brought him here," the cop replied nervously, obviously startled at Gordon's interest. "Would you like to see him?"

Gordon nodded. "Take me to him."

He immediately recognized the man. It _was_ Wayne's butler. Gordon remembered seeing him, more than twenty years ago, the morning after Thomas and Martha Wayne were killed. What was his name? Right. Alfred. Alfred Pennyworth. He had come to pick up little Bruce, thanking Gordon for his help. It was the same old man.

Only this time, he wasn't the kindly gentleman he was on their last meeting. Alfred Pennyworth was wide-eyed, complete devastation and fear written all over his features. Gordon approached him slowly, hoping to get some answers.

"Mr. Pennyworth."

Alfred caught sight of Gordon. "Oh, God, Commissioner - I _must_ find Master Wayne - "

"Please, Mr. Pennyworth. Take it slowly." Gordon said, gently but firmly. "From the beginning. What happened?"

Alfred told Gordon how he had taken Bruce Wayne on a vacation aboard a yacht. Everything was going well until, obviously, the storm hit. Alfred was able to hold onto the boat, but Wayne had been swept away into the sea. Gordon concluded that nothing new or helpful could be learned once he had heard Alfred's story. The only option was to investigate, search and find. Of course it wasn't his job, really, but he couldn't just let billionaire playboy, Prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne, disappear into the ocean like that. They had to find him, at least, dead or alive. And Gordon knew, no one else would try except for him.

"Mr. Pennyworth - "

"Alfred, if you please." Alfred seemed to have become calmer after talking to Gordon. It must have helped, letting someone else take in the bad news instead of keeping it, confined, like a caged beast, to himself.

"Alright. Alfred." Gordon glanced around at the cops overseeing the questioning. "I think we might want to have a little chat by ourselves."

The butler nodded wearily. "Of course, Commissioner."

Gordon nodded to the other policemen; motioned for them to get out. He wondered what sort of trouble he'd have to go through to find the selfish, arrogant, and downright idiot of a billionaire - Bruce Wayne. God, will his job _ever_ improve? First the Joker, now this? Gordon couldn't have said which was worse. Probably he'd have to spend more sleepless nights, this time on boats and creaky helicopters.

He had only one thought in response to this.

_Shit_.

**So, what did you think? Please review and thanks for reading! I shall try and update every week, keep tuned for more!**


	4. Chapter Four

Notes: From now on, things are going to be slow. This isn't a story focusing on action and adventure, this is more of a character thing. I'm more interested in exploring Bruce Wayne's mind than in having him brawl his life away. Just so you know what to expect. Enjoy.

**Chapter Four**

Something was jabbing at his back.

At first Bruce thought it was a knife, but he figured that it wasn't sharp enough. Grunting with the effort, Bruce raised one arm and swatted at the unfriendly object.

Bizzarely enough, there was a loud squawk as his hand collided with whatever it was. He felt... feathers? Odd. At least the thing was gone.

It was hot.

_Really_ hot.

At first Bruce thought that the heat was fire, burning fire, like in the explosion that had blown Harvey Dent half to hell. But then, what would a fire be doing here?

_Where_ was here?

There was something rough rubbing against his face and chest. Bruce slowly opened one eye, then the other. He was lying face-down in... Sand. What the _hell?_ Bruce slowly lifted himself up from the ground, and sat up. There seemed to be pain everywhere. His entire body ached, there was near agony in some places - presumeably where the more severe injuries were. Any blood? Not much. Bruises? Fair amount. It was Bruce's habit to make sure that he was intact first, no matter what sort of situation he may be in. His condition was most important. _Okay. I'm fine. More or less_.

Next he checked his clothing. Miraculously his shirt was still on him and intact. So were his shorts, and amazingly, his expensive leather sandals. Bruce put his hands into his pockets, looking for anything useful - all that came out were some keys, his cell phone, a pocketknife and a soggy piece of paper. He threw the keys and paper into the sand in disgust. After seeing that his phone was too waterlogged to work he did the same. The knife stayed.

Then came the assessing of his circumstances.

Slowly Bruce looked around. In front of him, endless blue sea. Below his feet, sand. Fear made its way into his throat. He was afraid to see what was behind him. Slowly, he turned around. His eyes widened as his worst suspicions were confirmed. Big palm trees, like the ones Bruce had seen in travel guides and magazines. There were a lot of them. What lay behind? There was no way to tell. Sand, ocean, palm trees... Bruce began to realize what this might mean. Unsteadily he staggered up to his feet, walked a little to one side, then a little to the other - he could draw one conclusion.

This was an island. A _goddamned_ _island_. Not a big one, either, as far as Bruce could tell.

Fear and dread began to form in his heart, a cold, hard lump. This was bad. Really bad. Was he all alone here? Or perhaps he had been lucky enough to end up on civilized land? Bruce doubted the latter. This place just wasn't suited to human life, he could see the fact almost immediately. Maybe some hermit lived here, a deranged old man, or perhaps some natives? Bruce gave a harsh, humorless laugh. Sure. As if they would be such a huge help. If they existed, that was.

The reality of the situation suddenly hit Bruce with full force. He was stranded. On an island. Stranded! On an island! _Isn't this what happens in the stories? Robinson Crusoe? The Swiss Family Robbinson? Heck, I can't be stranded on a deserted island! I'm Batman, for God's sake! I have things to do! I have THINGS TO DO! _Bruce suddenly felt dizzy with shock. This was surreal. Just a while ago, he had been enjoying a vacation on a yacht! Then it occured to Bruce that he didn't know just how long ago that was. It could be just a few hours, or a few days. He had no idea; how long had he been unconscious? Judging by the growling in his stomach, long enough.

Then he glanced at his arm - God, his watch! His waterproof digital watch! Bruce sighed in relief and looked.

Oh. Shit.

He left for the vacation on August 13th... He went aboard the yacht on the 14th...

Today, according to the watch, was the 16th.

He had been out for _two days_.

God. No wonder...

Bruce sat back down in the sand. His head was spinning. _What? What am I going to do? Hell..._ His mind wandered to Alfred. Alfred. The only person in this world that he fully trusted. The butler was like a father to him - ever since Thomas Wayne had been shot and killed in that dark alley by Joe Chill, ever since Bruce was only nine years old... Where was he now? Bruce wondered. On another desert island? Perhaps he had been swept onto a public beach somewhere out there? Or maybe he was still with the yacht? There was no way to know. Perhaps Alfred already had a search going on for his master. Bruce laughed at himself again. _Sure. There would be only a few thousand islands out here, it'll only take a few decades to find me..._ _Oh, goddammit, please let Alfred be all right... Please..._

Despair. It was nothing new to him by now. But this time... There was no way out. He was stuck here. With no provisions. No tools, except for the puny knife. Alone. So alone... Even back in Gotham he had felt alone. But never before he actually was completely isolated like this, never...

He realized that he was despairing right now. He was able to endure, endure all that torment and suffering until now, stay strong. Mostly, though, it was because of the people around him. Alfred. Lucius. He couldn't break down in front of them. If he had been isolated, without anyone to trust, to confide in, he would have snapped a long time ago.

Now he _was _alone. Very, completely alone.

So, what now?

Would he go insane, perhaps? Maybe. Perhaps he'd stay here for a decade or so, like Robinson Crusoe did... _No, no, no_... Bruce simply lay back in the sand, and closed his eyes, feeling the hot sun beat down on his face and chest._ It'll be easy to die here_...

Bruce had never really thought about death before. Things would have gotten complicated if he got killed in Gotham as Batman. People would remove the cowl and see the face underneath. Alfred would likely be arrested; maybe Fox, too. Criminals would run wild again; Jim Gordon would be on his own. Bruce probably didn't ponder about death because he didn't want to. Now, though... It would be peaceful to die here. Very. His secret might go with him - probably Alfred would be able to cover things up, so would Jim Gordon. No one would go after Alfred or Lucius - Batman would just fade away, as an urban legend. Some other hero might emerge and save Gotham from its neverending suffering. Maybe. Just maybe.

Or Gotham would be completely destroyed. Seeing how things were going there nowadays, it was perfectly likely. _Why did it matter any more?_ Thought Bruce. He opened his eyes again, hoping to see an airplane or a chopper of some sort. All there was in the bright blue sky was a bird, cawing, circling over the island. Bruce figured it was the thing that was stabbing at his back when he woke up. So he could have been supper for that blasted bird? Life was getting better and better.

Right now, Bruce didn't have the strength to do anything, both mental and physical. He felt completely drained. And helpless.

Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep, be peaceful again.

Because who knew when he'd have such a chance again?

_Sleep. Sleep is good_.

* * *

Jim Gordon ran his fingers over his face, and sighed. God, he was tired. Alfred Pennyworth sat beside him, also looking drowsy. A map was spread open on the table between them; a spot was marked on it with a black 'x'. This was apparently where Alfred took Bruce Wayne on his vacation. Gordon had whistled when Alfred first pointed out the place on the map - so far out in the sea. Alfred explained to Gordon that Wayne had wanted a quiet site, where no one could disturb him. Since when was Wayne so serious about his privacy? Gordon couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at that, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to say something stupid and make Alfred feel worse than he already was right now.

They hadn't really begun the search yet. First they had to plan - mode of transport, general area, team members... No one wanted to help, despite Gordon's best efforts to persuade them. He could see why - Bruce Wayne did nothing for them or the city, so why should they spend so much strength on rescuing him? Even Gordon had to admit that he didn't actually _want_ to search for Wayne. It was just the right thing to do. When he told Barbara that he had to go away for the rescue mission, she looked at him as if he'd just grown horns. _Are you crazy? For that billionaire bastard? He'll show up somehow, just like he did last year..._

"I wish," Gordon muttered angrily, out loud.

"Sorry?" Alfred broke his train of thought.

"Nothing." Gordon and Alfred had been speaking in sentences composed of less than five words for the last hour. Alfred Pennyworth did seem like a nice enough gentleman, unlike what Gordon had been expecting from Bruce Wayne's butler, but he was strangely... reserved. He didn't say much, especially about things concerning his master, and he refused to look Gordon in the eye. The commissioner just assumed it was because of the shock of his loss, but of course there was much more going on inside Alfred's head.

He was so terribly afraid. Obviously for Master Bruce - was he alive? Safe? Uninjured? It was impossible to know. Alfred had his doubts about the search team. And also, he wasn't sure whether he could trust Commissioner Gordon or not. Of course, he was offering to help them and all, but... Batman had trusted him. But that was a long time ago. Before the Joker, before Dent's death... Now, things were different. Gordon's men had nearly shot Master Wayne to death a few weeks ago, they were pretty much determined to kill him. What would happen if Gordon found out about Bruce's dark secret? After all, this was dangerous territory. Now that Bruce's vacation was going to be much longer than expected smarter people might make a connection. As far as Alfred knew, Gordon was one of them. The commissioner had always been close to Batman... And didn't Bruce say that he was going to pay Gordon a visit?

Alfred shuddered at the thought of Bruce being discovered. They would arrest him, squeeze him for information, condemn him, throw him into jail. And worst of all, this was _all his bloody fault_.

Only if he had never suggested the vacation! Or at least, he could have chosen some other place, not so far out into the ocean... Alfred felt that he had been very stupid. He should have done some realistic thinking instead of blindly trying to make Bruce happy. The vacation couldn't be perfect; he should have accepted that. Perhaps a few papparazi shots wouldn't have been so bad, compared to this bad situation they were in right now.

It was killing Alfred. Was Bruce alive? Bloody hell, was he alive, for God's sake? He could already be a corpse, floating about in the sea...

_Stop it. Stop it._

"Mr. Pennyworth." Gordon said to Alfred. "We're going to set off tomorrow. It's all ready. Two choppers and three boats - it's the best we could get."

"Thank you for your help, Commissioner." Alfred replied. "I must ask you one more favor."

"Which is...?"

"May I come along as well?"

Gordon couldn't hide his surprise. "But - "

Alfred kept his expression calm and indifferent. "Yes, Commissioner?"

"Well - " Gordon hesitated. "I suppose it can't hurt..."

"Thank you, sir." Alfred stood up. "I have to go now, I'm afraid. To pick up Master Wayne's suits from the cleaners'."

"His suits?"

"Yes. I'm sure he'd need them when he comes back."

_I'm sure he would_, thought Gordon. _I'm sure he would_.

* * *

Back on the island, Bruce had been prodded awake by... itchiness. It seemed that mosquitoes had feasted on him during his nap. Even worse, Bruce found that he had been sunburned pretty badly. And the wounds - they were still seeping blood into the sand.

The sun was setting. The sky and clouds seemed to be painted with intense shades of red, orange and yellow - it was beautiful. But Bruce was no longer interested in enjoying natural wonder. Instead he saw the black edges beginning to taint the sky - night. Night was falling. Soon the island and sea would be covered in thick darkness. No lights. Sufforcating blackness.

Darkness was dangerous. For Batman, it was an ally. For Bruce Wayne... Well, Wayne was never out at night, was he? But on this island... Bruce couldn't have said what sort of creatures might be lurking around here, what sort of nocturnal animals that could be interested in eating him populated this place.

When the island was drowned in darkness, Bruce found himself being drowned in despair, the deep, black hole of despair.

**Thanks for reading. Please read and review!**


	5. Chapter Five

I apologize for taking so long with this one - it's not even that long. Sorry. I just had a busy week, and the words weren't coming... I'll try and make sure this doesn't happen too often...

Many of you seem to be curious about whether Gordon finds out about Bruce's identity. Actually, that was exactly what I was planning to do. waits for cheers to die down But I better not give away too much... The same goes for how Bruce will get rescued - if he does get rescued, that is... evil grins Muahahaha! You'll just have to wait and see!

Thanks to **Alice's Restaurant** for being so appreciative! *hugs back* And of course to all my other reviewers. Thank you so much for the enthusiastic responses. It's great motivation.

Sorry for the long chitchat. Let's get on with Bruce's tale...

Notes: This chapter, as I said before, will be slow, like many others to come. Please be patient; I promise something more interesting will happen in the next.

**Chapter Five**

_'Billionaire Bruce Wayne lost in storm!', _the headlines were screaming.

Lucius Fox was still drowsy with sleep when he walked into his office and saw his daily newspaper placed on his desk, like always, by his secretary, Jessica. He wasn't going to bother reading it until he saw the bold letters on the first page.

Bruce. Lost. Storm.

Fox felt his head spinning. What? Was this for real? No. No, it couldn't be. Alfred would have called him, he'd have gotten some sort of news earlier... Feverishly, he dailed Bruce's penthouse number.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ Then came the answering machine. Alfred's recorded voice. "_You have reached Bruce Wayne's residence; we are unable to take your call right now, please leave a message..."_

The forboding in his heart grew increasingly intense. Fox slowly put the receiver down, breathing deeply. Where was Alfred? He always answered the phone. Always. Absolutely always. Unless...

Right. The paper. Fox picked it up, read the article. _Bruce Wayne has reportedly set out on a vacation on August the 12th..._ That he already knew. _His butler, Mr. Alfred Pennyworth, has been found by a freighter ship on the morning of August 14th, shaken but uninjured. He has only revealed details about Wayne's vacation to Commissioner James Gordon..._ _The whereabouts of Bruce Wayne are yet unknown. The Commissioner has agreed to set out on a search for him by this weekend_. Fox felt both relief and anxiety flooding through his mind. Relief for Alfred, since he was safe, anxiety for Bruce, who was not. Was he dead or alive? There was no way of knowing. And Alfred? Where was he right now? Maybe with the Commissioner?

While Fox was wrestling with his thoughts Jessica hesitantly brought him a cup of coffee, which he accepted without a word.

He burned his tongue on it.

* * *

Bruce's first week at the island was simply a nightmare. Even later he couldn't have said how he had survived it.

Each day for that week went something like this.

He woke up sometime around nine and ten o'clock. It wasn't possible to sleep any more, for the mosquitoes woke him up, always. Their consistent buzzing around his ears, the itch of their bites - Bruce was never free of them. Never in his life he had been this tormented by those tiny insects, not even when he was in China. Or Tibet. Wherever it was. He could never remember.

After swatting as many bugs as he could, Bruce would look around for a coconut. _The_ coconut. Luckily enough he had discovered it on the sand near the trees on his second night, when he was nearly faint with hunger. With the knife he had managed to pry open a hole in the thick, hairy, shell; the first sips of the coconut milk was like heaven. It had tasted far better than any wine or cocktail Bruce had drank before. But now it was just tasteless liquid; obviously coconut milk wasn't meant for drinking ever day for an entire week. Worse, it wasn't very filling. At first, of course, Bruce had his stomach full of the stuff, and it served fine as a substitude for all the five-star restaurants he was used to visiting as a billionaire playboy. As time wore on, though, he could feel his body taking the punishment of living on _goddammed coconut milk _for far too long. He often felt lightheaded and dizzy; his limbs just refused to work normally, and he couldn't stay awake for more than a few hours a day.

So he mostly slept. It saved energy - something so very vital to Bruce now. But soon even this stratergy began to lose its effect as the days wore on. Pangs of hunger woke Bruce up during his naps; sometimes soft moans escaped his lips, with no one to hear him and become concerned. Oddly enough Bruce found this fact rather liberating.

To make matters worse his injuries weren't doing very well either. Many of them bled continuously, and they hurt, too. But Bruce figured that it didn't matter. If he were back at home, Alfred would be looking after them like always, he'd probably chide Bruce about reopening them, maybe he'd grumble a little, too... God, Alfred. Bruce missed him so much. So much. He missed the old butler's sarcastic comments, he simply missed having him by his side whenever he needed him. During his wild years at least Bruce had company, at least he had something to do... Here, no one, nothing. He was just wasting himself away.

What was rather strange was that Bruce didn't really _care_.

He didn't care whether he became a skeleton here, he didn't care what happened to himself. Why bother? There was no hope, anyways, no hope in getting out of this place - and even if he did, it was just more agony. There couldn't be a less inviting place for Bruce than home. Home was where he got shot at every night. Home was where he had to endure all that nonsense about the Batman. Home was where...

Bruce had so much time on his hands, so he just... Thought. About so many things. The one person who wouldn't leave his mind was Alfred. It was just... Odd, not having him around. Odd. More than once Bruce started to say something, turn and realize that no one was there. Bruce had never known that it could be this agonizing, being alone. Usually he always wanted to be alone. Alfred was an exception, of course - the only man he could talk to honestly deserved to stay by his side, wherever he was. Peace... Isolation... That was why he came on the vacation in the first place... But now all he wished was that he could get out of this godforsaken place, get out and go home. Even if home was torture, too. At least there, he had Alfred to speak to.

Then came jumbled thoughts about Jim Gordon. What were he and the police doing right now? Bruce wondered whether they knew about his unfortunate incident in the storm, he wondered whether they had heard from Alfred or not. If they had... Bruce had a sneaking suspicion that Gordon would try and do something to help him, or Alfred, at least. Perhaps he might come and look for him? As far as Bruce knew, Jim was a good man. He would do everything that was necessary to help Gotham. But that also worried Bruce. With Bruce Wayne on his mind like so, maybe Gordon might connect him to Batman's disappearence...?

The sharp caw of a bird made Bruce start. Goddamn that creature. It just wouldn't leave him. It was obvious that it was waiting for him to finally die so that it could eat him._ At least I have some company_... Bruce thought through mists of starvation.

Bruce didn't really know when it started to rain, but before he long, water was pounding on him and the sand. Soon he was soaked and chilled to the bone; even Bruce Wayne, who no longer had a will to live, knew that he couldn't just stay out here. Well, maybe he could. Maybe if it rained enough, he could drown and get killed quickly...

_No_, whispered another voice from within him. _Get the hell out of the rain, Bruce. Now._

He somehow managed to crawl into the undergrowth, and deeper into the thick trees. Even that was exhausting. _What have you become, Bruce? You're supposed to be Batman_. Bruce tried to tell himself, but his words weren't getting through, through that wall of blackness - of hopelessness and despair. Someday he might be able tear it down and get on with life. Yeah. Someday.

He fell asleep again, even as the water continuously dripped onto his face and clothes. It was three hours later when he woke again.

Bruce couldn't believe his eyes.

Was that a _pineapple_?

* * *

The first day of searching had been fruitless.

Alfred felt that he was going mad with worry. Jim Gordon tried to hide any feelings he had about this whole thing - to tell the truth, he couldn't have said whether he would actually _like_ to have Bruce Wayne disappear. Yes, it was a cruel thought. But it was reasonable. Without Wayne, Gotham... Well, perhaps it would make no difference at all. Perhaps it might make things worse? Without an owner, what would become of Wayne Enterprises, the company that is currently running Gotham's economy?

They had flown over the spot where the storm struck - naturally there was nothing. Then began a slow, gruelling search of every single meter square of the seemingly endless ocean. The boats from water level, the choppers from the sky. It seemed impossible. But Alfred had the feeling that Bruce wasn't dead. Not yet. They had to find him. They had to.

To pass the time, Alfred found himself talking to Jim Gordon. "I heard the situation's been bad out there on the streets, Commissioner."

"It has." Gordon replied, sipping some cold coffee. "But Batman - he helped a great deal - " He abruptly stopped, realizing what he had just said. "Well, I mean, until he went bad." He sighed. "At least, with the Joker in Arkham, things have calmed down a little - the killings have stopped, of course. But the criminals are getting bolder, with all our forces going after the Batman..."

Alfred kindly ignored Gordon's slip, knowing exactly what he was going through. "I see." He hesitated for a moment. "What exactly would happen when you catch the man?"

"Who, the Batman?" Gordon looked down at his cup. "I suppose we'll have to find out who he is, first... Arrest him and any accomplices or connections he may have... Interrogate him... The usual. He's no different from other criminals now..." The words came slowly, as if it hurt to say them. Alfred tried not to remember that this was Bruce they were talking about. Yet the cold lump that was fear that had formed in his heart wouldn't disappear. _But if we don't find Master Wayne soon,_ thought Alfred, _they won't find the Batman, either... _Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Alfred could no longer tell.

Gordon interrupted his racing thoughts. "There's no knowing whether we'll actually get him or not. He's really like the ghost everyone says he is... Impossible to corner. Even when my men claim to have shot him a dozen times, he just... well, vanishes. I know it sounds like bullshit, but it's true. Yeah, sometimes he leaves blood behind, but he seems to be sound and healthy every damn night..." _You're wrong there, Commissioner,_ Alfred thought, remembering Bruce's terribly bullet-ridden body, his grunts of pain, him insisting on going out every night... "Ah, I don't know. Maybe we'll catch him unawares someday... I hope..."

Alfred could tell that Gordon's heart wasn't agreeing with his own words.

_Good man._

Pity that he was now supposedly the Batman's worst enemy. Alfred wondered why the entire world seemed to be against Bruce Wayne. Brave Bruce, poor Bruce, good Bruce...

More sadness. Alfred felt that he was experiencing far too much of it nowadays.

_I'm getting too old for this..._

**Reviews anyone? Thanks for reading, keep tuned for an update!**


	6. Chapter Six

Again, thanks for the overwhelmingly positive reviews and praise.

This chapter? Well, nothing that special about it, other than the fact that we get a little action from our Mr. Wayne... XD I hope I'm not glorifying his character too much - I'm insanely in love with Bruce and... well... *clears throat* yeah. So forgive me if he's a little too... You know.

Now, let's get back to Bruce in his tropical prison...

**C****hapter Six**

Bruce never knew that a single pineapple could be so delicious, nourishing, or simply heavenly.

The hardest part in eating it was... removing the rough outer skin. Bruce had to keep his hands from shoving the fruit into his mouth before he was even done peeling with the knife. God. The juice. Bruce licked the stuff off his fingers, and nearly fainted with joy. The sweetness of it. And how cool it was! He hadn't even actually eaten the fruit yet!

He sliced a small piece off with the knife, and almost tentatively, put it into his mouth. Bruce had never tasted anything better in his entire life. The next bites came faster and faster. Before he knew it, the entire pineapple had disappeared into his stomach. It was over too soon! Far too soon... But he was _full_. Heck, he hadn't been full since, what, that Italian restaurant he had gone to a day before the vacation! It felt wonderful to have a full stomach... Bruce found himself realizing this once again. It had been a while since he had first gotten to know what starvation was like. Wow. Already nearly ten years ago...

Bruce looked at the remains of the pineapple. He almost felt sad. It made him laugh at himself. _Look at you. Going crazy over food like an animal_... Ah, well, it couldn't be helped, could it? In these circumstances... Bruce stood up, wiping the last of the juice from his chin, and took a glance around. It had stopped raining; the sun was shining through the trees. He checked his watch. Three p.m., August the 21st. Bruce found himself wondering what he'd do when the batteries ran out. How was he to keep track of time then? He told himself not to think about it. _Only worry about the present_. _Don't burden yourself with future's happenings, too._

He felt stronger already. Maybe it was a temporary thing; why did it matter? _Only worry about the present, _he said to himself again. Perhaps he should take this opportunity and look around the island. But then a voice said to him,

_Look what happened the last time you took a chance._

Bruce hesitated.

Then another, more aggressive, voice answered him. _Stop being a coward. You can't do nothing forever, you fool._

_But - _

_Idiot._

Bruce blinked. This was so strange. Like two people inside him, arguing. What the hell? Was he going mad? But bizzarrely enough he found that it helped him sort out his complicated thoughts and focus. _Focus, Bruce_, he said to himself. _So. What's it going to be? Rot or explore?_

He figured that he suddenly didn't fancy shrivelling away - not at all.

After all, what harm could a little peeking around do?

* * *

If it weren't for the ferocious man-eating dogs, the island would have been an ideal vacation spot.

Bruce explored it leisurely, looking around for anything helpful (edible) or for some sign of human life. He found none of the latter, unfortunately, but there was enough to eat, to his great relief. He found a couple more pineapples, and some other fruits that he didn't have names for - he put them all in a pile in some bushes near the shore. He tried to ignore his stomach, and his body's, urge to eat something... meatier. Meat. Bruce nearly drooled at the thought of a thick, juicy steak at a five-star hotel restaurant. _Shit. Don't be stupid. Don't. Be. Stupid._

He looked for a decent water source. So far coconut milk had provided enough moisture, but Bruce missed the sensation of pure water running down his throat, wetting his mouth and tongue. Bruce didn't have to search for long. He had been taught to listen for water, way back at Ra's al Ghul's monastery. It wasn't as easy, this time, because of the continous lapping of the waves at the shore, but not impossible. Nothing was impossible - it was something Bruce had learned over all these weeks, months and years. Hard as hell, yes, but never impossible.

There was a stream, not too deep into the forest, leading into a rather large pond - it was about a fifteen minutes' walk from Bruce's usual spot at the beach. Luckily he made it, even with his diminished strength - he made a mental note. _Keep in shape_. Bruce knew it would be vital for more island life.

At some point during his walk he found himself questioning his sudden desire to get moving.

_What difference will it make? _The voice again._ You're not going to get rescued - you know it's not possible. You're a billionaire playboy, how do you expect to survive in a place like this?_

_I've looked around. It's not all bad here. What about the training I've been through? All the torment back in Gotham? Compared to all that, this will be a piece of cake. Quit whining, stop acting like the people you hate most - weaklings_.

It was true - the island wasn't the hell Bruce had first imagined it to be. The pond was another joy. Stripping off his shirt Bruce plunged right in - the cool water felt wonderful on his skin; it also did in his mouth. He cleaned himself in the water, swam around, drank his fill. When he finally climbed back out, nearly half an hour later, he stopped to look at his reflection on the mirror-like surface of the pond. Almost immediately he took out his knife, and began to shave. The blade cut his chin and jaw more than once, but he didn't stop. He didn't stop until all of the unsightly beard had gone - then he proceeded to cut his hair short with the same, now rather bloody, knife. After he was done he wiped the knife on a leaf, and washed his now-clean-shaven face in the water - that was better. He didn't fancy looking like Robinson Crusoe apparently did at the time of his rescue. He was Bruce Wayne. He wanted to stay that way.

Then he reached into his pocket and took out a fruit resembling a mango he put in there earlier. Bruce had no idea what it was, but it looked appetizing enough. He took a bite - not bad, not bad at all. With his back against a nearby tree, he ate his way through the thing, feeling perfectly content for the first time since he had nodded off on that godforsaken yacht. He spent over three hours, napping contentedly.

_Peace never lasts._

It was something Ra's al Ghul had said to him. He and Bruce were meditating on an iceburg - Bruce had indeed felt peaceful, with the cool wind caressing his face and hair, his mind as empty as a sheet of blank paper. Then, very suddenly, Ra's had struck him across the face, nearly knocking him right off the edge of the iceburg. What followed could have been called a beating, but Ra's claimed it was 'a lesson well taught'. Only after Bruce was lying at his feet, bloody, bruised, half-unconscious and very angry, he stopped. Later, when Bruce asked him about it, all he had said was

"Peace never lasts, Bruce. That's something you should always keep in mind. Never get caught off guard. Don't make the same mistake that has killed hundreds, no, thousands, of men before you."

Bruce had cursed himself, many times, for forgetting the teachings of that madman - this time was no exception.

He should have noticed that ominous growling, he should have noticed the rustling undergrowth. But no, he had been too obsessed with that stupid fruit and his own self-satisfaction to do so! Only when the howl exploded from nearby Bruce jumped to his senses. By then it was far too late. The first dog emerged from the bushes, less than five meters away from him, teeth bared in a threatening snarl. It reminded Bruce unpleasantly of the German Shepherds that were always hunting him back in Gotham - at least then he had his armor. Right now he was as unprotected as a sitting duck. Hell, even his shirt wasn't on properly!

Fear closing over him like a set of claws Bruce drew out his knife - the blade glinted in the dim light. But what good would a knife be against that animal? _No good,_ thought Bruce. _No good at all_. The dog came closer; Bruce stood up, slowly. Vaguely he noticed the other beasts, so very well-hidden in the green around him - Goddamit, he had been so _stupid! _If he'd been a little more careful! _No use now. Focus, and you might be able to get out alive_.

The dog growled; as if on cue the others emerged, surrounding Bruce, far more effectively than the police forces of Gotham ever had been. These animals were gaunt, scruffy, lithe and... hungry. Bruce could see that - the saliva dripping from their jowls, the ribs showing through the ragged fur... Suddenly he felt a pang of pity for the dogs. They were just starving wild animals; what would they know? To them, why would eating a person be wrong in any way?

_You're an idiot, Bruce, you're a bloody idiot._

How many times had Ra's al Ghul taught him not to feel compassionate for his enemies? _Criminals are one thing, unknowing animals are another._ He answered himself.

_Yeah? But they both want to tear you to pieces. What's the difference?_

To Bruce Wayne, the good-hearted, noble young man, they _were_ different. But to Batman, the monster, full of rage and power, desperate for survival, they were the same - enemies. Objects that needed to be destroyed.

This time, Wayne won over.

That wasn't a good thing.

Bruce's hesitation had encouraged the beasts. The one at the front pounced without warning. Bruce had no time to react. His arm shot up to protect his face and throat; it ended up inside the dog's jaws right away. Bruce yelled as the teeth sank into his flesh and drew blood; he fell backwards, the beast on top of him. He tried to tear his arm out from the beast's mouth - the dog's canines had raked all the way down the length of his forearm as he did so. At least he had succeeded in freeing himself. Bruce rolled around, somehow got leapt back up to his feet, and gripped the knife tightly, surprising himself with his own agility and strength, considering all that he'd been through for the past week. Only one explanation was available for that - his survival instincts had kicked in. Or was it the Batman's? It didn't matter.

Another beast came flying at his head. He clenched his free hand into a fist, swung as hard as he could - he had forgotten that it was his bad arm. It probably caused him just as much pain as it had caused the dog. Oh, well. With a yelp, the dog was slammed against a tree, brutally hard, and lay unmoving among the undergrowth. Bruce struck out with the knife, this time, feeling it stab into _something_, then delivered a ninja chop with the same hand to another dog, at the base of the skull, felling it instantly. He wasn't sure how he was managing to stay alive, here, but he was. In fact, he was doing more than that - he was staying alive _and_ beating those dogs half to death. Was he really _this_ good a fighter? _It's desperation, more likely_.

But he was tiring. There were too many of them. More blood; he could no longer distinguish between his own and the dogs'. Bruce knew that he needed to get out of this, soon. Or he'd end up as dog food. That wasn't quite what he wanted his future to be.

They broke apart for a moment. The dogs - all on their feet except for one, which lay in a pool of its own blood. Bruce? He'd been through worse before. But this wasn't pleasant, either. A copious amount of sticky warmth was soaking his arm; this was far more painful than the bite he had recieved from the Chechen's Rottweiller back in Gotham, months ago. He gasped for breath, looking for an escape route - anything would do.

Ah, that looked good enough.

A vine, hanging overhead, a few feet away.

Only, a dog was _in front_ of the thing.

Goddammit.

But... then...?

A stupid idea began to form in Bruce's head.

xXxXxXx

**That was fun to write. I hope it was also fun to read. Reviews anyone?**


	7. Chapter Seven

So many reviews. I'm deliriously happy. I hope updates aren't too slow for all you eager readers.

Notes: Again, not a very special chapter. I'm a lazy sorta person, a kid, too, with not much time, either... (I could hear my dad yelling at me to get off the computer already...) I hope that explains the lack of interesting notes...

**Chapter Seven**

Jim Gordon usually didn't dream.

But this time, he had. It had been a confusing jumble of Batman, Harvey Dent, and the Joker. It was very nearly terrifying - probably, it was because it had been real. The gunshots, Dent's deformed face, his family's sobbing - Gordon woke up, drenched in sweat, heart beating like a frightened bird's wings. He was trembling - or was it the chopper's steady vibration? Looking around, Gordon could see that Alfred wasn't asleep, either. No one on this helicopter was asleep.

Gordon sat up, still breathing hard. Alfred turned to face him. "Having trouble sleeping, Commissioner?"

He sighed. "Yeah." Running his fingers through his hair, Gordon muttered, "Excuse me for a moment." Turning his back to Alfred, he took out his cell phone. It was the same phone with which he had recieved Dent's call, the Batman's call... Gordon dailed a number, waited. It seemed like ages before the phone was finally answered.

"Hello?" Probably it was Ramierz, but Gordon was too drowsy to tell.

"This is Commissioner Gordon."

"Oh! Commissioner!" Definately Ramierz. "What - "

"I want to know about the Batman." Gordon cut her off. "Has he shown up? Any more reports?"

"Of course there's more reports, they never stop coming in..." Ramierz hesitated noticeably. "But no one's seen him for the last week. We don't know what happened."

Gordon hoped that she hadn't heard his sigh of relief. "Thanks. Tell the men... Tell the men to redouble their efforts. I want the Batman to be found." He hung up.

He hadn't told anyone about Batman's supposed... vacation. Gordon figured that it was the best way to handle it. How else? Knowing about the vacation meant that he had been communicating with the Batman. Gordon didn't want the world to know that he was still, well, rooting for Batman, the murderer, the burglar, mugger, hell, rapist... How would the public react then? Gordon didn't want to think about it.

Alfred interrupted his thoughts. "What was that about?"

"I... er... Well, I was just asking about how the Batman search was going..." Gordon wasn't really sure why he was saying this.

Alfred remained silent, then finally said, "I see."

Gordon felt so exhausted. Yet they were no closer to finding that Wayne - there was no news, no information, no nothing. When was this going to end? If they didn't find him, would Alfred be able to let it go? Probably not, as most people who lost their loved ones never did. It worried Gordon - he knew that he couldn't do this forever. He had to get back to Gotham, soon - perhaps he would leave the rest to his men? No, they would never manage. They wouldn't even try. He knew them. He knew them very well.

He felt that his life was so very unrewarding and frustrating. Then again, every other Gothamite led this sort of existance.

* * *

Bruce wondered when he'd be able to come down from this damned tree. He felt so idiotic, hanging on for his life on a branch that wasn't even thick enough to hold his weight.

The dogs were still waiting down below. Wouldn't those animals leave?

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the rough bark. _I'm a fool. I'm a fool._ Stupidity... Usually it led to accidents, some worse than others. This time, it had saved Bruce's life - although not in a very dignified fashion.

The dog had been about to charge. Seeing no other option, Bruce had also tensed... When the animal began to run, so had Bruce. Only, he had gone _towards_ it. A jump, using the beast's face as a stepping stone, and then...

Bruce had caught ahold of the branch. He blinked. _It worked?_

A tug at his foot told him otherwise.

He looked down. As he had expected, a dog had latched on with its teeth - Bruce felt anger and annoyance flare up within him like a fire.

"_Not those Italian sandals, you brute!_" He kicked out as hard as he could with the other foot, again and again. Finally he was able to dislodge the dog - he pulled up his legs, just in time to aviod another leaping beast. Bruce cursed when he felt fur brush his legs again; he risked a quick glance down. Damn it. These dogs jumped high. Bruce paused to smash his heel into the nose of an incoming canine, then heaved himself up onto the branch. He stopped to catch his breath for a moment and listened to the barking of the enraged dogs. Bruce thought about inching back to the trunk of the tree, where he could at least lean back and have some support - he discarded the idea when he heard the strained creaking noises from the wood below. _I'd better stay put._

Gingerly, Bruce sat upright. The dogs barked. He figured that the only thing he could do now is to wait. He inspected his arm. It was pretty badly chewed up, but he supposed that he could live with it. The only problem was the blood loss. Losing too much blood could bring down even the toughest of men - Bruce knew that very well. He needed a bandage of some sort, something to stop the flow of blood. Where could he find something like that here?

_Your shirt. Use it._

_My shirt?_ Bruce struggled out of the filthy, bloodstained and white shirt, looked at it._ I suppose it'll do_... He tore a strip from the fabric and tied it around his arm with his free hand and teeth. After putting the shirt back on Bruce checked the dogs again. They were still there - waiting.

_They can't stay forever... Patience is the key. _

Bruce wondered just how long he'd have to wait.

_Might as well make use of the time..._

He let his eyes close, and despite his uncomfortable position on the tree branch, fell asleep.

* * *

_"You just couldn't let me go, could you? I guess this is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You truly are incorruptible, aren't you? You won't kill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness... And I won't kill you because you're too much fun. You and I are destined to do this forever."_

_"You'll be in a padded cell forever."_

_"Maybe we can share one. At the rate this city's inhabitants are losing their minds, they'll be doubling up..."_

_"This city just shows you that it's full of people ready to believe in good."_

_"Until their spirits break completely. Until they get a good look at the real Harvey Dent. And all the heroic things he's done."_

_"What did you do?"_

_"I took Gotham's White Knight and brought him down to our level. It wasn't hard, because madness, as you know, is like gravity. All it takes is a little push!"_

Push.

Suddenly Bruce was falling.

_Thud_.

He found himself sprawled on the forest floor, every single muscle and bone screaming at him. Bruce groaned aloud; his head was pounding. Worse was his heart, which was beating so fast that he was afraid that it might burst. It happened every time the Joker invaded his dreams. Every damn time. _Okay. Calm down. Calm down. Look, he's not here, you're on some obscure deserted island, he can't be here. Breathe_. Bruce followed his own advice, and took deep breaths, keeping his eyes shut all the while. When his pulse had finally slowed he said to himself,_ now check if you're in one piece_. He tried moving all his limbs, twitched his muscles, rolled his neck. Nothing seemed to be seriously damaged or broken. Good, because there were no doctors around here. Now that Bruce thought about it, how different were things back in Gotham? Even if the place was full of hospitals he could never dare to visit even one. Maybe this place was better, where there were _no_ doctors, hospitals or pretty nurses to tempt him.

Bruce figured that it was time for him to attempt to get up. He did, and nearly threw up the pineapple he had munched on earlier. The forest seemed to be spinning around him. _God, I don't feel all that good_... He felt nauseous and sick. The dog bite probably didn't help, either - it was throbbing like the devil. Bruce lay back down, and closed his eyes again. _Hell. What have I got into this time? Will I ever be able to get up? _

He decided to stay that way until he felt well enough to move around again. Bruce raised his good arm and checked his watch; it was nearly four o'clock. Soon it would get dark... He knew that he couldn't lie here in the jungle at night. Mosquitoes were one thing; wild animals were another. Who knew what else would be lurking around here? The dogs were bad enough... It was likely that they'd return for him later.

Just then Bruce noticed the unpleasant metallic smell in the air. He knew it too well. It was the scent of blood - fresh blood. He slowly opened one eye, turned his head to the side, and caught sight of the dead dog. It was lying in a puddle of the red liquid, mouth open and pink tongue sticking out. It was probably the one he had stabbed with the knife. Bruce felt slightly sick. Then he felt his stomach growl with hunger again._ Maybe, just maybe...?_

Back in Gotham he would have felt queasy at the thought of eating a dog. Although he had experienced plenty of this sort of thing, way back in Asia, it had been a long time ago. Bruce had grown used to the comfort of being a billionaire in Gotham City. Not a good thing. In Gotham, he had dined in luxurious restaurants, where each meal costed hundreds, sometimes thousands, of dollars - all the best quality foods available. But now he was starving. Fruits couldn't keep him alive. He needed protein - Bruce was knowledgeable about these things. The only way to get protein here was to eat meat...

Fueled by the desperate desire to have a proper meal, Bruce dragged himself back up to his feet, gathered some sticks in a lopsided pile near the dog. Ra's al Ghul had taught him how to make a fire in all sorts of condition, even in rain, so long ago that he could barely remember. Luckily enough it wasn't too hard this time, with good wood and no wind. Soon Bruce had a small fire going. Almost drooling as he cut open the animal, Bruce skewered a piece of meat on a stick, and roasted it over the fire.

The first bite was even better than the pineapple. The meat tasted odd and wasn't properly cooked, but Bruce didn't even notice. It felt so wonderfully solid compared to the fruits he had eaten earlier. He roasted another piece, then another, then another. Only then common sense stopped him from shoving the rest of the dog into his mouth. Bruce realized how precious the animal might be - who knew when he'd come across something like this again? He should save it, definately. He dragged the animal over to some bushes and left it there, for now - he wasn't quite feeling strong enough to attempt anything else yet.

Bruce saw that he was coated in blood, both his own and the dog's. And it was getting dark... He decided that he should get back to the shore for the night - besides, he wasn't going to wash himself in this small pond - it would contaminate it, probably, and rid him of one of his very few joys in this place.

It took longer than he had remembered to get back to the sea. Once there, Bruce felt drained and exhausted. He went over to the water, unravelling the makeshift bandage from his arm, and peered at the wound. Yikes. It looked even nastier, now that the blood had congealed. Bruce dipped his arm into the saltwater, gritting his teeth as it stung profusely, and forced himself to wash all the blood off. Next came the rest of him, which was nearly as bloody and filthy as his arm was. _Might as well swim, goddammit_... Bruce thought as he proceeded to squeeze the blood out of his bandage. He had to reuse it; he couldn't tear up his entire shirt just to use as damned bandages.

As he sat under the trees again, rebinding his arm, he wondered whether he was mistaken about island life beginning to look up.

**Thanks for reading. Reviews will be greatly appreciated... Look for an update around next weekend.**


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes: **Well, erm, hi. Hahahaha. I've just checked the date this has last been updated, and wow, it's been a bit less than _3 years_. I can't believe I've been writing this sort of stuff since I was in grade 8… wow. I feel like I was a bit of a twisted kid XD But anyways, I was reading my own old fanfiction and thought it was not bad at all, for a 14-year-old's writing. And I also thought of how agonizing it would have been for readers to be left hanging like I left them in 2008. I'm not sure how many of you are still around, but I hope some of you that are reading this now were a part of the group of amazing reviewers I used to have. I'm so sorry for stalling this story for so long. And if you've just started with this story, I hope you'll stick around, now that _The Dark Knight Rises_ is starting filming! Is everyone as excited as I am?

Anyways, here's the first new chapter of this story in 2 and a half years. 2 years older, maybe 2 years wiser? My writing style might have changed over the years (it should have…), so expect a bit of a gap from the previous chapter… This is also a bit of a mini-chapter, since it's midnight and I have school tomorrow . Read on, and you tell me what you think :p

Cheers,

Halad.

**Chapter Eight**

Sitting at the edge of the trees by the beach, his established favourite spot on the island so far, Bruce chewed on a long rib bone – the remainder of his last meal from the dog carcass. Two days had passed since his unpleasant encounter with the beasts. He had been worried that any remaining members of the pack would sniff him out and follow him, but nothing but the usual mosquitoes had disturbed him since. He had been resting on the beach again, recovering from the dog attack; his mauled arm was healing moderately well with the baths of seawater it got every couple of hours. The weather was nice, and Bruce's stomach full – it was a surprisingly good two days, considering what had happened.

But of course, there was that uneasiness gnawing at his consciousness again. He couldn't fathom what it was but it was there, always there. Perhaps it was the Batman again, the damned reckless demon. Perhaps it wasn't; perhaps it was something else. Bruce didn't know, but it was telling him that he should be back on his feet and moving around again.

Even if Bruce didn't want to listen to that internal voice of his, he was so bored out of his mind by the end of the second day of tranquil that he himself decided to embark on another exploration of the island the next morning. He felt strong enough, anyways, and a little workout would probably do his body some good…

That morning, after a quick breakfast of the mango-like fruit and coconut juice, Bruce made his way into the forest, but decided to stay close to the edge this time. He was as fully prepared for whatever might be thrown at him as he could possibly be – his knife tucked in his pocket, a strong stick in his left hand, and another strip torn from his now rather sad shirt wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand. Before the dogs had struck, Bruce would have thought that these were ridiculous measures to take for an island exploration. _See? More lovely self-taught life lessons_. Maybe this hermitage on the island was doing him some good after all...

_You know, the rate you're changing your mind about this shit is pretty idiotic, Bruce Wayne_.

_Whatever_.

Today Bruce had made it his goal to circle the island if it was big enough and try to find any more useful resources that could potentially be available. If it wasn't, he would turn back at some point and make it back to his designated spot by nightfall, so he wouldn't be attacked by any more nasty creatures.

Another one of his goals was to confirm whether this place was actually deserted or not.

Bruce didn't know what he'd do if he discovered other people living here. It would hugely depend on who the said human beings were, of course. They could be fellow American billionaires on vacation, or they could be primitive cannibals living in the forests. If it was the former, things would probably be very simple… Bruce could call home and be picked up by someone, preferably Alfred – if he was alive, of course. If it was the latter… Bruce didn't quite want to go there yet. But at least he would still have a chance of gaining company… He snorted at himself at that.

With these kinds of thoughts churning around his head, Bruce made his way through the undergrowth with relative ease, already having become accustomed to the terrain. While he let his mind wander, he still kept half of his consciousness focused on the environment around him, watching for any potential dangers. Being paranoid was far, far better than being oblivious, especially in a setting like this... Bruce felt like he was seeing shadows of animals everywhere, when the largest creatures he came across were admittedly cute little songbirds and pretty butterflies. Bruce began to feel a bit silly.

This continued for another hour and a half or so. The island didn't seem as small as Bruce had initially thought it was, now that he was walking around it. Bruce's heart began to swell with a bright, burning hope. The part of him that was Batman was trying to convince him that hope was futile, that hope was dangerous, but Bruce Wayne, the normal human being, didn't want to listen. It was undeniably true that he could be badly crushed if his exploration was fruitless, but as a human being, Bruce couldn't help but hope.

He was walking a bit faster now, his grip on his stick still as tight as it was when he had first set off. Inexplicably, Bruce felt rather uneasy all of a sudden. His instincts were telling him that something was off, that he was about to run into something… interesting. He slowed his pace and began to move more cautiously now, straining all his senses for any sign of… anything, really.

Bruce pushed some foliage out of the way, and blinked.

For the first time in a while, Bruce felt the need to speak out loud. His voice came out hoarse and raspy, but his vocal cords were still working, miraculously. "What _the hell?_"

He was peering into a clearing, a wide, sunlit area that was actually quite cozy-looking. But that was besides the point. Bruce had to keep himself from gaping. In the middle of the clearing, right in the middle, right before his eyes, sat…

… a _cell phone_.

**TBH**

R&R anyone?


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes: ** Wow! I'm so glad you guys are still around, **gaap** and **Ana**! It has indeed been a long, long time and I want to apologize once again for the hiatus. And gaap, the cell phone question will be answered in this very chapter… I suppose I've decided to give the story a nice, big push forward here. It'll probably lead towards a bit more meaty action in future chapters (a.k.a. not just Bruce battling with annoying maneating dogs). It's deviating a little from my original plan back from '08 but I'm hoping things will still work out nicely. Anyways, here it is… Chapter Nine.

**Chapter Nine**

Bruce stared at the phone, innocently sitting in the middle of the clearing. His brain had simply stopped functioning for a moment. Now his mind was racing, frantically going through all the ways the object could have gotten to this spot. Could this be a trap? Did this mean that there were other people on this island? Was there someone here recently? Could Bruce possibly be rescued right here and now?

Breathing fast, he slowly went forward, and knelt down to inspect the phone. His fingers trembled a little as he picked it up; Batman's voice, the one telling him to be extremely careful and mindful of his surroundings, was rather muted at the moment by the beating of his heart. It was from a brand that Bruce recognized; a sliding phone that seemed like it was quite a recent model. It was quite well-worn, the back scratched all over and some grit having worked its way in between the keys. With determination Bruce pushed the phone open with his thumb… and the screen flashed on.

Bruce's eyes widened. The display was set to a plain black, with the time and date. To his bitter disappointment he saw that there was no signal being received; however the bar indicating the remaining battery power was still a little over half-full. Batman's cold, cynical and rational judgment immediately stepped forward. What was this phone doing here? What advantage could it bring Bruce, since it was useless for calling anyone? Bruce considered this last question. He could get information about whoever owned the thing, and perhaps that could lead him somewhere…

The phone was programmed in English. He found the 'menu' button, a little awkwardly. The phone felt so smooth… His fingers hadn't felt anything man-made other than his watch and knife for over a week – although that should have been a short period of time, considering what he'd been through before, it didn't feel that way at all. The standard phone menu popped up – _Contacts_, _Settings_, _Messages_, _Camera_, _Games_… Bruce chose to look in _Messages_ first, as that was where any relevant might be located ('what exactly in this would be _relevant_ to your situation, anyways?' Batman asked skeptically). The inbox was full. Bruce opened the first and most recent message.

He had a sinking feeling when he saw that it wasn't in English. Of course this would be the case… Looking closer he saw that it was Spanish. "Damn this, why couldn't it be in French or something?" Bruce growled in irritation; he had always had a better grasp on French than Spanish. Heck, he would've preferred Mandarin over Spanish, since he'd picked up a little bit of that when he was in China during his wild years. As a matter of fact, he had quit Spanish back in high school after getting frustrated with basic reading, and hadn't studied it since then. He couldn't tell much from the text at all. Bruce probably couldn't even read airport signs in Spanish – a text message was out of the question.

The contacts list didn't provide much information either, it being just a list of names, as Bruce had expected. There were names of all nationalities, including some Spanish, some American-sounding ones, a Russian one, and what he recognized as Japanese. Either way, it wasn't very helpful, and Bruce heaved a deep sigh. He was almost tempted to hurl the thing away into the trees but common sense prevented him from doing so. He slipped the phone into the pocket of his shorts. At the same moment, a rustling noise in the undergrowth nearby made his head snap up.

Bruce recognized the glinting eyes of the dog in the bushes immediately, and tightened his grip on the stick he'd wisely brought with him. Funnily enough the beast seemed to be alone – he could only see and hear one dog. Bruce, or maybe Batman this time, ground his teeth together and growled, "Bring it on, you son of a bitch."

The dog snarled and exploded from its hiding space, obviously having realized that it had already lost the element of surprise in its attack. Bruce yelled and swung his stick as hard as he could, aiming for the animal's face or neck. It didn't hit it exactly where he'd have wanted it to, but there was still a cracking noise and the dog gave a high-pitched yelp of pain. Somehow, though, it still landed on its feet, and came charging forward again, looking rather enraged. Bruce let out his breath in a slow whistle, braced himself for the impact, and thrust his stick forward with all his might at the last moment possible. It hit the dog at the sternum or perhaps right above it. It was probably the latter, the way the animal's breath gurgled in its throat as it slowly pitched forward. Bruce wrinkled his nose in disgust, and figured that it was time for him to get out of this general area.

* * *

The buzzing of Gordon's cell phone, which had been set on 'vibrate', woke the cop from his uncomfortable slumber. Groaning, he sat up, rubbing at his eyes blearily, and looked to the phone, also noticing Alfred, who was asleep on the other side of the chopper. Gordon put his glasses on and picked up the phone.

"Commissioner Gordon." He hoped his voice didn't sound too slurred.

It was the voice of a woman that Gordon didn't recognize. "Commissioner, we have a bit of a problem in Gotham."

Gordon didn't know whether he should just sigh or be concerned. "What is it? How bad?"

"Well…" the woman hesitated. "There was a heist at the Gotham City Bank, and the criminals got away, apparently by boat. We've gotten sightings near your area, apparently… The detailed report's being emailed to you, Commissioner."

Ah. He knew it. The situation had just gone from bad to worse. Gordon massaged his temples, trying to fend off an incoming headache. What was he supposed to say to that? First it was to look for a billionaire bastard, and now he needed to grab a couple big-time bank robbers at the same time? "Wow… um…" he tried to collect his thoughts together and form a proper sentence, which wasn't easy in his current drowsy state. "Thanks for letting me know. Any… any chance I'll be getting any backup?"

"Certainly, sir. We'll send over another chopper right away." Right away by Gotham standards, of course. That would only take what, a week, perhaps?

"I appreciate it." Gordon didn't feel like saying any more, and hung up on that note. Muttering half a curse, he kicked back in his uncomfortable seat and stared at the low ceiling of the helicopter. What the hell was with his life? Really? Criminals just thrown into the mix, just like that? Why did things have to just keep getting more and more complicated and headache-inducing? Gordon wasn't a particularly spiritual man, but at that moment, he knew that if there was a God, he probably wasn't in high favor.

Sighing, Gordon went to fetch his laptop and some food. His mind wasn't really functioning at the moment. He'd gotten three hours of sleep, only to be woken up by that lovely phone call… he wanted to go back home and see his wife and children again, godammit. Where the hell was the moron Bruce Wayne, anyways?

Strangely, every time he looked at Alfred's worn sleeping form his anger would fade a little; ultimately he decided that he'd find Wayne for Alfred, the kindly old gentleman, and for no other reason. With this thought swimming around in his brain, Gordon opened his laptop and checked his email, where the report on the bank robbers was waiting for him. The tiny font was rather scarring for Gordon's poor eyes, and he felt rather nauseous after reading through the thing on a rickety helicopter.

It was around when Gordon was laboring his way through the last couple lines of the report when Alfred stirred. The old man, looking groggy, slowly sat up and blinked a couple times, obviously trying to get his bearings. Gordon somehow managed to smile, despite thinking that his face was no longer capable of forming such expressions any more. "Did you sleep well, Alfred?"

"I've been more comfortable before, I suppose," Alfred replied dryly. "How about you, Commissioner? It seems like you've been up for a while."

"Yeah, got woken up by a phone call." Gordon stifled a yawn.

Alfred raised his eyebrows. He seemed to be well-practiced at that particular movement. "Anything I should be informed of?"

Gordon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had a quick internal debate on whether he should risk telling the old butler about the criminals he was now supposed to find on top of Wayne. In the end, he decided not to – there was no reason for Alfred to know such things yet. Besides, it would be better if he thought that Gordon was fully focused on finding his charge. Gordon felt rather guilty about lying but since it was partly for Alfred's peace of mind… "No, it was just the usual."

"I see." Alfred didn't seem to have fully believed him but left it at that. After a moment of silence, he inquired, "Did we make any progress?"

"Eh… I think we'll start looking more closely at nearby islands, to see if we can find any sign of Mr. Wayne or human life, for the matter, since I've been informed that this chain of islands has no recorded inhabitants."

"That's fine with me," Alfred leaned back on his seat, and started to attempt to smooth down his very crinkled shirt. "You don't happen to have an iron with you anywhere, do you, Commissioner?"

"Nope." Gordon wondered whether a rumpled shirt was really such a big deal. These higher-up rich people… They lived a life of their own, didn't they…

As if reading Gordon's thoughts, Alfred said, "If Master Bruce saw my clothes in this state he probably would not be very happy."

"… oh." _The bastard_…

* * *

For the second time this day, Bruce wondered if he was beginning to go insane.

He'd come out of the woods and closer to the shore of the island, deciding that it would be safer to walk along the beach instead of through the forest again. He was only a little surprised to find himself on the edge of a rock face. This island was a lot bigger than he'd thought… When Bruce went to the edge of the cliff and looked down, he saw that it led down to a large, rocky shoreline. As his eyes swept across the edge of the rocks for anything interesting (what exactly he'd been expecting, he had no idea), a boat entered then exited his field of vision. It took a moment for Bruce to process what he'd just seen. His eyes immediately went back to the boat in question, and confirmed that it was real. It was what looked like a very ordinary fishing boat, except what was written down the side of it, which made itself legible to Bruce when he squinted. It almost made him choke on his own saliva.

_Gotham. Wayne Enterprises_.

"Holy…" Bruce couldn't even finish. It was a boat. From. Gotham. His mind had begun to race very fast again. Frantically, his eyes jumped from the boat to the cliff that separated him from it. This thing was at least the height of a small apartment building. He could have easily scaled it if he had his gadgets or at least the Batsuit, but right now, he knew that things were probably a bit more dangerous. There was no way he could climb without some sort of protection or assistance, especially in his current physical state… Damn it. God damn it. He was so close to busting out of this stupid prison, yet _so fucking far away _at the same time.

It was then something else caught Bruce's eye. It was straight below where he was standing, so he'd missed seeing it. But to his credit, it was very well-camouflaged among the craggy rocks of the shoreline – it was what looked like a small shack or hut of some sort, built in a rather haphazard manner with wood, was it? Bruce wouldn't know how the hell whoever built it would've gotten the materials needed down there, but what mattered was that _it was there_. He was almost literally reeling from shock and hope. Could he finally get out of here? Was this the ticket to his freedom?

"Don't jump to conclusions, now," he said aloud to himself, "whoever might be down there is obviously not a vacationing rich playboy like you. What sort of normal people build little wooden shacks in on the rocky shore of an uninhabited island in the middle of nowhere?"

_Goddammit, no need to crush my hopes the minute they surface_… But the naïve Bruce Wayne had to admit that the voice that had probably been Batman had a good point. He didn't particularly find the shack-thing very inviting… oh, wait. Was that a barbed-wire fence he saw surrounding it? The realization was accompanied by a sinking feeling as the depressing possibilities began to jump to Bruce's mind.

It was a good thing that he had the sense to drop down and lie low among the shrubs that lined the edge of the cliff the moment he saw figures beginning to emerge from the boat. They seemed to be all men, and they were carrying some large bundles between them. Who could they possibly be? Bruce wondered.

For some reason he had a very, very bad feeling about this.

**TBC**


End file.
